Copyright © 2002 by Syvia (Aka Rebecca K. Friedrick). All Rights Reserved.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the stuff from LoK. Adojan the Hylden and all of the Ancients except Janos are my brainchildren. If you want the full list- check out the dictionary in the back. ^_^
Author's notes: I used the Prima strategy guides for BO2 & SR2 for pics of the games and info.
Check out Blincolin's site; http://www.peak.sfu.ca/~blincoln/lok/ It kicks ass and it's where I found out that Turel's Clan Territory was in Dark Eden! ^_^
This; http://www.darkchronicle.co.uk/archive/bomap.html is a really great pic of the Blood Omen 1 map of Nosgoth in SilverEnigma's site. Great site in general and great pics! ^_^
Ranmyaku, thanks for the shoptalk about this, that and those other things. You're a great help and a wonderful friend. ^_^
And another shout out to all the buddies of mine on FF.net who've kept me going, talked about general fun stuff & keep me up past my bedtime with their great stories.
*Syvia walks out and faces the readers*
Syvia- For those of you who've just come in... why the hell are you reading this chapter first?!? *small chuckle*
Must mention this- ^_^ Crazydragon took up the challenge of drawing some of my brainchildren! ^_^ take this link- http://www.side7.com/cgi-bin/S7SDB/DisplayImg.pl?INO=162334 and go check out Zofia all grown up! :-D *hugs the life out of Crazydragon*
Don't be surprised if, in the future, you find a humor ficlet regarding the night she wore that dress! ~_^
Anyway- ever since I've played SR1, I've been wondering something. Turel survived Raziel's wrath, so what is he doing? What's happening to the future in Kain & Raziel's absence? Well- let's find out. *happy grin*
Chapter 7
Pride and a Fall
Nosgoth ~ 2012 A. C. ~ The Dying World
In the Northeastern mountains, mere miles away from the Turelim clan territory of Dark Eden, a creature stood at the edge of the highest peak, engrossed in the sight of the world spread before him.
It was a scene from hell.
And yet, many would not have realized that fact.
Humans told stories of the land of fire and brimstone that housed evildoers after they departed the coil of life. Few realized that Hell did not have fire, because although fire was a source of pain, and death it also perpetuated life. Fire fueled life, encouraged it in the same manner as the earth, water, and air.
No... the true vision of Hell was this. This cracked, wasted land made up of bare grey stone that stretched as far as any eye, human or vampiric, could see. This world was dark... lifeless... there was nothing. Nothing at all.
Nosgoth was not supposed to look like Hell. Yet it did. The creature on the cliff was not supposed to look like he did, yet he was something of Hell himself. Not vampire, by the formidable pair of curved horns adorning his head, and not demon, by the pair of leathery bat wings that unfolded from his back. He was a something of both, as well as something else entirely, and a far cry from his original self indeed.
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Centuries ago, a human named Kyran had been one of the last practicing Sorcerers in Nosgoth. His talents had been mediocre at best; lighting candles with a thought and creating a thin energy barrier to keep off the rain had been two of his strongest abilities. But in a world where magic was dying and life was fading, even the second-rate practitioners were precious. As, one-by-one, the oldest ones died, Kyran had become the very last. Then he had been sought out, abducted by vampires, and initiated into their brotherhood. His death and rebirth had caused a substantial -to say the least- increase in his powers.
During his centuries spent as the Lieutenant Raziel's chief sorcerer, Kyran had remained hidden, his existence unknown by all but the highest ranking of the Vampire Lord's soldiers; used as a secret weapon in court intrigue and the wars against the humans. He had 'died' in battle many times, only to rise again unobserved.
It was this talent that had saved him from the Clan Purge so many centuries ago. He had seen the entire tragedy, elder vampires and fledglings alike slain where they stood, taken unaware by the sudden and brutal attack of the other Clans. Kyran remained in his secluded area of the Razielim's Territory until the fervor died down, then, draining a few slaves for added energy, escaped into the mountains. There had been only three others of his Clan to elude the slaughter, and together they had run from their former home. The other Clans, tracking their fear like dogs on the hunt, caught wind of the few Razielim that had escaped their notice until now.
It was a game to them, Kyran realized as he ran. He tore up the mountain path with no heed for the small bushes he crashed through or the pebbles he knocked against the mountain walls. His pursuers made no sounds, but they were there. He cared nothing for the sounds he made. Kyran wasn't trying to be stealthy, he knew this day was his last on Nosgoth. At least, he hoped it would be. He was the last. Last of the Razielim. Lord Kain wasn't likely to allow him a quick death.
Either way, the Lieutenants had taken their time in hunting them. He and his three brethren had run over a week ago, and during the last seven days his comrades had been killed, one by one, on the road out of Nosgoth. In times past, Kyran had thought such a thing to be mere fantasy. Now he knew it existed, but only for the dead.
He was unsure if bad or good luck had caused only three of Lord Kain's remaining sons to take on the job of hunting him. From what he'd heard, the two absent, Lords Melchiah and Rahab, were two of the more merciful. During the Purge, he had seen first-hand the rape and mutilation inflicted upon his brethren on behalf of the Dumahim and Zephonim vampires. Of the other Clans, it varied vampire to vampire, but for the most part, they killed cleanly and quickly. The killings were brutal, done with relish and subsequent blood drinking, but at least the vampire in question was dead.
Kyran was not surprised at the presence of either of those clan lords, but Lord Turel was a different story. Kyran's best guess was that Lord Kain's second born had accompanied his younger brothers to ensure they did what they were meant to do, which was actually kill the last of the Razielim. Not that the Vampire God disliked the torture of vampires....
Those unfortunate Razielim who had undergone the change before the Purge had been among the most cruelly tormented. Skin was flayed from flesh by the most skilled of the Melchiaim, fragile wing bones extracted with exceeding care from their bodies by the Zephonim before they were beaten senseless by vampires of the other Clans. When their bodies began to mend, the torture began again. Each life, however, ended in the same manner, devoured by the abyss. Some had jumped willingly in the end, others were thrown or pushed into the gaping maw of the Lake of the Dead.
The four escapees had made it as far as the hills before they realized they were being hunted, and had caught a glimpse of who was hunting them. Black armor and stealth clothing had met Kyran's eyes, and the banners of three different clans. The vivid green, pale grey and deep violet had given him all the information he needed to begin running harder, his brethren straining to keep up. It had only been later that one of his fellows identified the three as Clan Leaders. Kyran had simply increased his speed.
Now, with his back to thin air, his face to the cliff to which they had chased him, he was well and truly trapped.
One of the vampires advanced, Kyran pulled his arm back, gathering pale yellowish-grey fire in his palm.
"Stay back or die," he warned softly. Dumah paused, then bared his fangs and growled deep in his throat. Kyran shifted slightly, ready to attack, when Zephon dropped a hand on his brother's shoulder. The Clan Lord smiled and advanced cautiously, moving to the right, close to the cliff.
"Unfortunate that you have not yet evolved," he said, glancing down into the abyss. "Raziel's deformity would have served you well in this dilemma."
Turel moved to the other side, the three of them forming a small circle about him.
"I don't understand," Kyran murmured, moving slightly in order to keep all of them in his sight.
"You never saw any of your brethren after the transformation?" Zephon asked curiously. When Kyran shook his head, the grey-bannered Clan Leader hooked his thumbs together with a whimsical smile and wiggled his fingers in an imitation of a bird flying.
"What?" Kyran whispered, his eyes wide. He turned at a sudden noise and dealt a fiery blow to Dumah's chest. The Clan Lord was propelled backwards, and lay stunned for a moment as Zephon smirked and Turel shook his head slightly. "Why are you doing this?" he pleaded, voice soft.
Zephon turned to look back at him, smiled slightly. "If I had a human for every Razielim who asked me that in the last month..." he mused.
"Raziel was a traitor to his people," Turel murmured, "and the sentence for treason is death... for every member of his Clan." Kyran met the cold, cold eyes of Kain's second born and saw his capture, torture, and eventual death. He turned and ran for the edge of the cliff. Hands caught his arms before he could take that step into oblivion.
"Oh no, my boy," Zephon hissed into his ear. "True death will not find you that easily."
They beat Kyran to within an inch of his life, and, upon Zephon's urging, he and Dumah reenacted the execution of Raziel, dragging him to the edge of the cliff and casting him into the chasm.
Kyran fell forever, somehow taking delight in the wind rushing around him, even as he sped toward his imminent demise... and yet he never hit the ground. The sweep of powerful wings met his ears and a strong pair of arms reached out, cradling him, slowing and eventually stopping his fall. Only a short time after that, weakened and delirious in the home of his savior, he was drawn into his own evolution.
He was held immobile, trapped within the cocoon, but his mind writhed in agony that his body did not have the freedom of movement to express.
In time he lost strength, lost the battle, and curled in upon himself as the change overtook his body. He thought it would end finally... when a new agony blossomed within him. Power, pure, unadulterated power seized his mind like a dam breaking over a village. It flowed in, saturating his poor brain and drowning it. The power had to go somewhere... and a door opened.
As the power sought its escape through that door, other things flooded in, making room. Suddenly Kyran was assaulted by a brutal rush of memory the likes of which he'd never felt before. He surged up, screaming, from the cocoon, lashed out without looking at the gentle hands that caught his wrists. His newly formed wings beat wildly at the air and he broke away, stumbling blindly for the light he sensed more than saw, and Kyran threw himself into the air, wings snapping out instinctively to hold him with nothing under his feet.
A voice was calling his name frantically, pleading that he come back. Kyran half-recognized it from the past and flew faster, beating his wings in a manner that was half instinct and half experience from his newfound memories. The wind carried him far and away from the Reaver Guardian who had been the instrument of his salvation... and his damnation.
He found himself, days later, without knowing how he'd managed to get there, in the ruins of the great Cathedral of Avernus.
Kyran traveled down and down into the Ruins, not fully aware of what he was doing there, or what he was looking for. Yet, from the fiery depths and lava-lined caves beneath the old structure... something was calling him. The summons felt like nothing so much as a hand wrapped around his soul, his heart, drawing him closer and closer to a place he didn't want to go.
In a cavern of blood-colored rock, decorated with the bones of human and vampire alike, he was drawn, almost against his will, to the back of the chamber.
His feet slid strangely across the dark floor while he noted the image that seemed to have been burned into the surface. Kyran moved forward, and at the far end of the room, on a pedestal, there sat a book.
It seemed harmless, and he reached out to touch it. A hair's breath from the parchment, he hesitated, his hand trembling slightly. A shadow passed over the pages, like a black wave on the surface of a pond, and he snatched cloven fingers back from the tome. It seemed to glow ever so slightly, ancient, yet uncovered by dust. The bloody handprints staining the page were shiny, as if the blood were still wet, yet the tome must have lain there for millennia.
His eyes followed the words written on the page, not quite recognizing the letters he'd used in his human life, yet one set of symbols seemed to leap from the page. It had three sections. Four letters, then two, then three. A name. It looked so harmless on the page, yet malice coated the curves and violence threatened in the points of each letter.
A name. It was a designation that attempted to classify that which could not be described; the most chaotic and evil force within Nosgoth.
Kyran had gone still, quiet, unable to form a word or even a coherent thought. Then, at a sound, he turned and his mouth fell open at what he saw. Rising from the stone floor was an enormous shadow, three times his size, bearing transparent ivory colored horns and talons and burning red eyes. It smiled possessively down at him with a smirk that made him want to shrink in fear or stand straighter in indignation. Its voice rumbled through the cavern, seeming to come from the walls instead of the creature itself.
:My 'raven,': the voice gloated. :Well-met, Adojan. Well-met indeed.:
"Who are you?" he asked calmly, although a frantic voice in the back of his mind was already shrieking the answer. "What name did you call me?"
The being chuckled again. :In darkness you were born... for the darkness named... and so in darkness shall you walk. My darkness. The last of your kind, and the first of a new. You shall be my instrument on this miserable planet, and your name is Adojan.:
The name echoed in his mind, a memory, a sound, traveling across the haze of disorientation... a woman's voice, lovely and loving, spoke a single word, a name, and he believed.
:Adojan...: the burning eyes caught his, held them, and dragged him through five centuries' worth of memories, long forgotten.
How long he sat there, he didn't know. The sound of the creature speaking his name brought him back.
He gasped, took in his surroundings, and stared up at the creature with a new sense of horror. The vampire's knees went weak, he sank down before the being, unnoticed tears slipping down his cheeks.
:A wise course of action, my son,: the Unspoken smiled down at his newest charge.
"Your what?" his eyes widened slightly.
:My son, Adojan. After all, you are what I made you,: the creature informed him.
Adojan's jaw tightened at the statement and he glared. "I am not your son."
Hash'ak'gik's smile became predatory. :How I shall enjoy teaching you otherwise.:
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Adojan stood broodingly at the cliff's edge. He was a more true mix of things past and present, pure and corrupted, powerful and weak, than any creature in Nosgoth. His body was thinner than it used to be, his muscles more dense, tendon connected to bone in different areas in order to give him more strength and force with less weight. The feel of his body was surprisingly similar to that of his far past. The fact gave him a small measure of comfort to counteract his disgust with the body the Unspoken had imposed upon him. After his fateful arrival in the Cathedral of Avernus, his evolutionary cycles had been regular as clockwork, and twice as painful as before. He had lost his hair and been given an enormous pair of horns, His feet were smaller, still cloven, but thin and bony, as were his legs. It pained him to stand for long, although he could do so, and frequently did, refusing to use his wings more often than was necessary.
His talons were longer, a bit thinner, better for gripping and finding handholds on stone. The most painful change, emotionally, was the loss of his eyes. They were another way for the Unspoken to insult him. Instead of the softly glowing amber eyes he had known as a vampire, his face housed a pair of emeralds that threw off their own luminescence, and actually burned when he was angry.
But his wings, his wings were the greatest slur against his appearance. They had lengthened, widened, turning from something he could barely use to glide into a useful method of transportation. But he found them repulsive. The feel of the wind upon them, moving over them, the touch of them on his skin if he moved wrong, the feel of them and the way they attached to his back, their appearance.
Adojan would have happily torn them from his back long ago, but the Unspoken denied him that choice... laughed at him when he attempted to act it out.
His battle garb was quite similar to the clan armor he had once worn, but there was less of it, and what remained was thinner, lighter. The insignia scarves clipped to each shoulder guard moved lightly in the breeze. It was an archaic symbol that adorned the alabaster cloth, and one he remembered seeing in the past. A stylized version of the Sarafan emblem, harsh angles making the 'Y' shape into an odd kind of rune. The rune itself was pure black, the cloth it sat on a sharp contrast.
At the first glance, he looked demonic in the half-light of Nosgoth's setting sun. The formidable curved horns that adorned his head resembled only one other race in Nosgoth. He was not demon, or vampire, not anymore. Somewhat taller and thinner than the Razielim of old, he was neither fish nor fowl, but something entirely different. The Unspoken called him Hylden, and having seen pictures of them long ago, he realized that this designation was not far from the truth. If a Hylden had been turned into a Vampire... it might have looked something like Adojan.
The Unspoken called him Hylden... had made him Hylden. As Nosgoth's corruption had grown, so too had the Dark One's influence in all things of Nosgoth. His meeting with Kain-
"You carry our taint, Vampire God of Nosgoth." He gave a mocking bow. "We thank you for populating the world with our brethren, allowing the Unspoken to make of them, what he would."
Kain bared his teeth slightly as Adojan continued. "Did the Sarafan Lord not tell you his kind would return?" Adojan smirked. "Here we are, in the form of your own children. You knew it would happen. You condemned my sire and all my brethren to the Abyss for that very reason, and yet, here I stand."
"I could destroy you now," Kain offered, his voice dangerously quiet.
Adojan only smiled. "Not likely. Not when the battle is two against one." Kain glanced at Janos and his hand crept back to take hold of the Soul Reaver. Janos noticed, and straightened, looking at Kain with sorrowful, yet determined eyes. "He was a powerful warrior once," Adojan said, flicking an idle claw towards the Reaver Guardian, "and his magic has grown with the aid of my master's power, as has mine. We could very easily destroy you."
"You can try," Kain answered.
Adojan had refused the bait, and smiled. "On another day, I would fall to my knees, and offer my throat to the Reaver's blade... but not today," the Hylden said grimly. "Today my master simply wishes to give you a message."
Then his eyes began to burn painfully, his awareness was shunted aside as the Dark One spoke through him.
"Your remaining days are numbered, Kain," It said, a slow growl trickling from Adojan's lips. The Vampire God's face stilled, Kain retreated behind a mask of haughty arrogance. Adojan imagined that Kain was too proud to show fear. What other explanation made sense, for there were none on Nosgoth who did not fear Hash'ak'gik. "You shall continue the current course of history with none of my interference, but the next time you find yourself in this era of Nosgoth, you life will be forfeit." Adojan's lips pulled into a cruel smile. "And with your death, the Circle shall finally be destroyed. The Pillars will crumble, and I shall tear open a gate between the dimensions, admitting my children into this world, which we shall finally claim as our own."
His power, the corruption of the Unspoken's taint, was his strength, and his weakness. The Demon governed his soul, and could take control of his body at any time.
That Hask'ak'gik was an enemy of old only deepened his cold hatred. He only barely remembered his days as a fledgling, but the days of his fated evolution- those stood out clearly in his mind, framed by a haze of fear and the feeling of thin fingers creeping through his mind. The life he had passed long ago, too, was distinct, but he refused to dwell on past glory, and past failure.
Adojan studied the steel factory that lay in the center of Dark Eden. The most important purpose of Turel's fortress was to spew smoke into the atmosphere, and hide the creatures of Nosgoth from the sun's light. The Hylden's lip curled in distain. His gaze followed the cloud of smoke up into the sky, and as a breath of wind traveled over the land, it cleared slightly, just enough for him to catch sight of a tall, circular structure, cradled amongst the mountain peaks.
For a moment his vision blurred and he saw dozens of winged figures in the sky around the building, flying to and fro. He blinked and the vision was gone. It couldn't be- the demons destroyed it centuries ago, he thought.
He peered through the dark clouds, waiting for another glimpse of the structure, when a voice broke in on his thoughts.
"Milord? Adojan?" He flinched slightly, surprised and angry; turned and caught the Hylden messenger by one horn, bringing the demon's face down, level with his. He glared into the creature's eyes, teeth bared. He could see the reflection of his poisonous-looking green eyes on the now nervous face of his scout.
"You do not address me by that name," he grated. Another of his scouts approached, bowed briefly before reporting.
"Our patrol sighted him within, Milord. He appears to be waiting for something."
"And most likely that something is my honored Sire, who even now is beyond this time," he said ironically, still locked eye to eye with the other Hylden, the disgust he felt towards the creature plain in his face. He pulled sharply on the scout's horn, jerking him off balance, then pushed him backward hard enough to break wing bones as he landed on his back. "Get up," he said coldly. The creature scrambled to his feet and backed into the lines of his brethren, broken wings mending slowly. Twenty-one Hylden stood in three lines on the cliff. Each was around six feet tall, average for a vampire.
They were slightly taller than he, with a bit more muscle, more mass to their horns, and a wider wingspan. They were not made to be independent thinkers, or problem solvers. What they had was strength, agility, and the ability to follow orders. Adojan might have been the most diminutive of the Hylden, but was the intelligence of their fighting force; the one that kept them all alive. Moreover he was the eldest; their creator, and the one with the greatest strength of will.
It was not enough to stand against the Unspoken, but enough to think in opposition to It. His creations had less, but then, they had been tampered with in greater measure than had Adojan. With each evolution, the vampires of Nosgoth had lost more and more of their arcane talents. In order for Adojan to keep the formidable magicks he possessed, the Dark One had been forced to slow his state of evolution. While his body was fragile compared to that of his creations, and he was not very skilled in the melee aspect of combat, his spells had been unmatched by any sorcerer save Kain for seven centuries.
They feared him because of this, which was another subtle jibe at him on the part of the Demon Lord. Throughout his lives, he had been respected, valued... but not feared, and he disliked the sensation.
They would follow his orders, and he would follow the Unspoken. That was all the Dark Entity needed to know.
"Move in at all sides," he shouted at them. The Hylden flinched and stood even more stiffly at attention. "Create a perimeter around the factory before you move in. Kill any vampires you find, kill them swiftly, kill them quietly." His eyes burned with anger at his own words, the soldiers believed the emotion to be aimed at them and some flinched. "If the Vampire Lord is alerted to our presence and escapes before you have secured the area, I will have each and every one of your heads mounted on a pike." His teeth were bared, wickedly sharp points flashing in the dim half-light. The Hylden showed no sign of fear, but he could smell it on them nonetheless. Self-hatred ate at him. Adojan only nodded once, as if satisfied, and ordered them to move out.
The Hylden whose wings were still mending remained standing on the cliff. Adojan only stared at him, eyes burning. The Hylden flinched, attempted to extend his wings, but couldn't. Adojan strode up to him, took hold of one broken wing and pulled the Hylden towards the cliff with it. He pushed the creature to his knees, forcing him to look at the steep drop and the lava that bubbled at the bottom. "If not by wings," Adojan whispered venomously, "you will arrive in Dark Eden on your feet... if luck is with you-" With the last word, he pushed the Hylden over the edge. The Hylden Commander stared coldly at the being who, screaming, tumbled down the mountainside to land headfirst in the magma surrounding the perimeter of Dark Eden.
Adojan's lips twisted in anger and loathing of his own actions. In the back of his mind, the Unspoken was laughing.
:You are what I make of you, my son.:
Adojan bared his teeth again in a futile gesture of rage and threw himself off the cliff. His wings snapped open by reflex. He rode the thermals, spaced in regular intervals by Dark Eden's constant geothermal heat source, towards the factory.
Turel lay at ease in the very back of his chamber. A small, darkened alcove, the stone covered in large cushions, served as a fine place to await his tardy brother, as Turel wouldn't be seen by another being until he wished to be.
The Vampire Lord would move into plain sight at the sound of Raziel's footsteps, but for now he lay back and waited.
He would fall in battle. He knew that as surely as he knew of the battles that had transpired between his younger brothers and the eldest. Each of his brothers had been destroyed by his own folly. Raziel, resourceful vampire that he had always been, had taken advantage of his surroundings and killed each of them with their own foolishness. Melchiah; ground to bits by his own torture device.
Zephon; immolated by -Turel had found this to be highly amusing- his own eggs, because a vampire hunter had gained access to his private sanctuary, before Zephon realized the human had a flame thrower, and then his lurking brother had failed to remove the device before Raziel appeared in his chambers.
Rahab; resting in the most dangerous room of his Abby, the very chamber in which humans had harnessed the sun's light for the purpose of destroying vampires, had died by a device that could have been dismantled.
And of course Dumah, who had allowed his arrogance to destroy him once again. Dumah had blithely followed Raziel into the furnace of his fortified city, so certain of victory that he'd died without marking their older brother's hide even once.
Now, with the exception of the few Turelim who inhabited the old city, Ash Village belonged to the wraiths.
Turel would also die by a means that could have been avoided. There was a river running below the castle, which collected in an underground lake. In days past, his children had used the area for training and for the forges. He could have walled up the lake long ago, protecting himself, but the Clan Lord chose to die in its cold, yet fiery embrace, and his soul would be consumed by his ruined brother.
He felt no anger or indignation towards this fact. Zephon and Dumah had been fools, not accepting their fate. Melchiah and Rahab on the other hand, had fought, knowing they could not win. They had been unable to give their lives over without a struggle, and so it would be with Turel. He would fight, without hope of victory, for the thrill of one last battle.
He knew little about the nature of his brother's transformation, but Raziel, while not invincible, was close enough that he would triumph. One of his children had brought news of Raziel's battle against the Tomb Guardian. How, after being thrown into the water, seemingly to his death, Raziel had reappeared unexpectedly in a corner of the room, revitalized and hungry for his child's soul. No matter how many times his brother was destroyed, he would come back with a new strategy and more resolve to destroy his target.
So much the better. In truth, Turel was weary of this existence, this world. Vampires did not live for all eternity, as his brother's deaths proved, but Kain's second born felt he had lived close enough to it.
Let his death come upon tattered wings and the touch of water he had never known as a vampire. He was ready. His clan were barely more than animals, and would live or die without his aid. Let death take him, and by the sound of footsteps down the corridor, he felt it would come soon.
Turel moved to the center of the hall, waiting in the shadows for the small form that moved ever closer. Pale flames glowed in the darkness, his eyes, Turel guessed. He'd been told of Raziel's appearance, but anticipated finally seeing it for himself. He wondered idly how his brother would react to his new form. Turel had been the least changed of the vampire lieutenants, his form was still humanoid, if slightly bigger than it had been at the time of his elder brother's death. His ears had become much larger, his skin dark and very thick. For all intents and purposes, his children were smaller, weaker, less intelligent versions of himself. Or so Raziel would believe. They greatly resembled animals now, and as Turel watched his children devolve, century after century, he had begun to wonder if that was all they were.
The figure in the darkness had stopped, peering into the darkness where he stood. Turel wondered if those glowing eyes served well in darkness.
"What has kept you, brother?" he asked, moving into the light. I felt Dumah's death days ago." He smirked slightly, waiting.
There was no response from the form, which surprised him. Raziel was nothing if not talkative, and Turel had taunted him long ago with the accusation that he was overly in love with the sound of his own voice.
The Clan Lord gave another taunt. "Has the abyss burned away your tongue, brother? Do you no longer possess a voice?"
A malevolent chuckle, tinged with bitterness, filled the air, carried on currents of magic. It gave Turel the feeling of cold prickling over his skin.
"I regret to inform you, Lord Turel," a hint of amusement in the tone made a mockery of his title, "that your esteemed brother could not make it. But not to worry..." the voice mused, "I am here." The owner of the voice stepped into plain sight. Turel's eyes went wide.
"Impossible," he whispered. The creature looked vampiric, but every sense Turel possessed was screaming that he was not. The thin, muscular body was pale, greyish-white, and almost human in its appearance. Cloven hands were present, but bore talons slimmer than a vampire's. His feet, cloven as well, were smaller, the bony segments more hoof-like than a vampire's.
Battle garb similar to what Turel had once worn graced the creature's shoulders, looking as if they were only there for decoration, as did the narrow loincloth that hung about his hips, a thin length of cloth that fell to his knees. A pair of wickedly sharp horns curved from the back of its head, ending in points before its cheeks. The pointed ears were small, but vampiric.
He smiled at Turel, enjoying the Clan Lord's reaction to his appearance, and the Lieutenant noticed delicately pointed fangs indenting the creature's bottom lip. Unlike a vampire, all of this creature's teeth were dangerously sharp. His eyes were slit-pupiled, a green that shone in the darkness, one that looked as if, as a liquid, it would be toxic. They threw off emerald smoke. The most amazing feature, however, and the reason Turel stood staring, were its wings.
"Impossible," he said again. His eyes traced the curve of bone and membrane that lay folded, half hidden behind the creature's body. The wings were bat-like, but much longer than Raziel's had been. The being unfolded them with a bitter smile, showing off, and Turel realized they were much wider as well, seventeen feet at least, and trailing at the lowest point to mid-calf. "I saw you fall from that cliff!" he grated. He knew, of course he knew this Razielim who had escaped death so long ago.
"It would have been prudent of you to kill me first," the vampire sneered.
How could he have been so foolish? Turel cursed Dumah and Zephon silently for distracting him, himself for the laziness and annoyance that caused him to be satisfied with dropping the vampire, barely alive, off of a mountain. He should have torn out the bastard's heart and watched him take his last gasping breath.
"Instead," the vampire continued, spreading his hands slightly, "here I stand," his lip curled, "alive and well."
"How?"
"How?" the winged one repeated, his tone still that light, mocking thing. He spoke in a condescending sing-song, as one would to a child. "How is of no importance to you, Lord Turel. Very soon you shall have nothing to worry about. Blame your brother if you wish to place blame, for his head is as good as any other on which to lay it.
"I lay it there. Even as I curse the setting sun and the rising moon... as I curse acidic waters and the choking clouds you and yours have used to cover the skies of this wretched world, I blame him. As should you."
Turel looked at him, tensing for an attack, waiting for the vampire to finish his little tirade. The being's voice was quiet, but thick with menace and a bitterness so sharp that, in another place and time, might have been a weapon.
"Curse his name, for he has led the entire world to ruin." The winged vampire smiled, his eyes flashed. "The cursed is named Raziel, first born of Kain's Lieutenants, and for your part in his death you may curse yourself as well!" With the last word, the vampire flung himself at the Vampire Lord. Turel reacted swiftly, despite his confusion, expanding his throat and pushing the force projectile out of his mouth and into the air. The former Razielim beat wings that had already been half-spread, angling up towards the darkness near the high ceiling. The force projectile impacted harmlessly upon a column.
Turel looked up, unable to see the creature in the shadows high above. That surprised him, he would have thought the burning green eyes would stand out in the darkness. He moved back into the shadows and moved silently around the wall to the left. If the winged vampire was unable to see in the darkness, it would still be watching his last position.
He stopped, listened... and heard nothing. He waited tensely for a few moments, then smiled a bit in amusement. It had been years since any creature had challenged his power. The familiar love of combat, coupled with a rush of heightened energy rose within him. He relished, completely and utterly, a fight. Not the slaughter that the Razielim had been unprepared for all those centuries ago, not the hunt his brothers had led against the four survivors, but a true battle against an equal opponent. One in which you were unsure you would escape unscathed, if at all. But it remained unknown if this vampire was a match for Turel's abilities. The Vampire Lord decided to betray his position, deliberately, and give his challenger an opening.
"And why should I be so cursed?" he murmured, just loud enough to catch the other's attention. "You seem to hate him so... I should think you'd be thanking me for ending Raziel's un-life."
A voice came back from the ceiling, so soft it was almost an echo of Turel's own. "Raziel is the root of the problem. Your hands planted the seed from which that root grew."
Turel stayed perfectly still, listening to the voice as it moved almost imperceptibly along the ceiling. He gave his position again. "Then blame Dumah as well, for helping me," he said in ironic tones, another thought struck him and he spoke again, "and Lord Kain as well, for raising us from the grave."
"Worry not," the voice whispered. "I do." Turel ducked, rolling out of the way as a shapeless blur seemed to fall from the top of the chamber. He turned, arms outstretched as the other vampire kicked off from the wall, reaching for him. The Vampire lord caught the winged creature by the arm and throat, had only begun to squeeze when the other drove a cloven hand into the sensitive panel of flesh at the base of his throat. Turel coughed, choking, and threw the being across the room. He watched the vampire stop himself forcibly, painfully, to keep from rolling across the floor.
The wings are a weakness that can be exploited, Turel thought, a smile curling his lips. The vampire launched into the air once again and Turel melted back into the shadows. "What do you want of me?" he asked before moving down the chamber.
"Why," the voice replied, still carrying that light sing-song tone, "as you are the highest ranking vampire in Nosgoth at this time... your position."
That gave him pause. "What?"
"Oh, weren't you aware?" the voice asked pleasantly. "Lord Kain and Lord Raziel have departed this world for another, leaving you Overlord of Nosgoth. If I wish to claim the title, I must eliminate the current holder."
Turel bared his teeth at the unseen speaker. "You think you can kill me?"
The laughter again. "I know I can. But that is not my attention... at least, not yet."
Turel snarled inwardly at the insolent words, watching the ceiling once again. The creature swooped down upon him again, Turel caught him from the air and flung him towards one of the columns. Suddenly wings spread and the vampire put his hands behind his back, an instant before he hit the stone, a light burst from his palms and he shot away from the column, back into the air.
Hit and run tactics... some strange form of power... intriguing. The vampire did not disappear this time, but hung in the air, just out of reach, taunting him. Turel smiled slightly, expanded his throat and loosed a force projectile all in mere seconds. The bolt knocked the winged vampire end over end, causing him to fall slightly before he managed to regain his balance and some amount of altitude. Turel shot another projectile, but the vampire shot into the darkness for a third time. Turel growled softly, annoyed now, and remained in plain sight in defiance of the creature who kept running away from battle.
"If you wish to fight me," he snarled, "come out and fight."
The being laughed. "Oh, Lord Turel, even before our damning evolution, my clan were fighters that relied primarily on their agility. This is even more true now that we possess wings.
"While my brethren of the past, much as your children do, depended on brute strength in battle, we have grown, evolved, and taken different form."
A small surge of outrage welled up in him. "The Razielim have never compared to us in size," he shouted.
The voice came back, deadly calm. "I was not speaking of the Razielim.... I was referring to my demonic brethren." A shadow dropped onto Turel's back and clung, digging his talons into the Vampire Lord's skin. With a roar of anger he reached back, grabbed the cold wrists and flung the younger vampire over his shoulder, slamming him into the floor with an audible crack as the creature's wing-bones snapped with the impact. Turel made a wide circle around the fallen vampire, who cursed and rose painfully to his feet. Turel moved swiftly to finish the battle as the vampire was rising, but a pale cloven hand slammed into his chest, a searing hot, and somehow revolting, touch. The Vampire Lord wrenched away with a shout.
The being backed away carefully, broken wings hanging limply behind him, already beginning to reform themselves. His hand was raised, small ebony flames crawled over his palm and fingers, trailing a sickly greyish-yellow fire at the edges. Magic; old and dark, tainted at the core. In Turel's experience, the only other being to use such magic had been Kain.
"Are you so poor a fighter that you cannot truly wound me?" he asked as the flames dissipated. "You would not stand long against my fledglings, and you will not stand much longer against me."
The other vampire regained his bitter smile. "You think much of yourself, but your fledglings are not here... nor will they be arriving." Suspicion crept over Turel's face. "All I need do is call my children to my aid, and your demise." The vampire lord turned, suddenly aware of the audience that waited just out of reach of the light. Emerald flames burned in the darkness, always in pairs, spaced evenly on every wall of the room. "Are all assembled?" the leader asked. He glanced around the room, his eyes passing a fierce look to all the creatures. He nodded once. "Then witness the end of an age... and the beginning of a new," the words seemed to hiss between his teeth, hanging in the air like poisonous fumes.
The winged vampire raised his hands, brought them up behind his head and down to chest height. The right sat slightly behind the left, as if supporting it, both palms pointed towards Turel. A tongue of the black and yellow flame lit in the vampire's palm, grew larger, dancing upon the surface of the creature's skin. Motes of darkness suddenly appeared in the air around his hands, gathered with the flame, causing it to grow larger still.
A growl started low in Turel's throat. He sank into a crouch, readying his weight to go rushing across the chamber. He moved, took one small step, and then threw himself into a full out run.
The winged vampire smiled eerily at him, still holding the fire in his palm, which grew larger, and larger with each passing second, flickering in response to the fire of his eyes.
The other winged vampires in the shadows watched in anticipation as their leader and the second-born Lieutenant of Kain drew closer together. Turel reached out, still running, and the winged vampire let go of his spell. The stream of fire, more intense than the first time, flowed into the Vampire Lord's chest, driving him backward into the wall. Turel's back hit the cold stone, followed an instant later by his head, but both pains were ignorable with the comparison of the flame.
The beam grew wider, spreading from the center of his chest to encompass his shoulders and neck. Turel tilted his head back, trembling, trying to keep his face from the fire. The pain of it seared, but did not devour his flesh, yet it intensified as the winged vampire moved forward. The other sensation, that which was revolting to him, he could not truly identify, but he imagined it was the feeling of decay. The rotting sensation was torture all on its own, feeling his flesh turning diseased, to gelatinous fluid, finally peeling, falling off.
So this is what Melchiah felt for so many years, he thought. The feeling brought him a strange, momentary connection with his youngest brother. Turel's anger grew with the pain and disgust, but he could not stand against the force of sensation. The Vampire Lord was slowly but surely losing all hold on consciousness.
Far from the roaring in his ears he heard the voice of the winged vampire. "A fighter I may not be, Lord Turel... but the superior magician I most certainly am." The fire dissipated then, the sudden absence of pain causing him to collapse in shock. He sank to his knees and looked up at the vampire, completely spent, but defiance burning in his eyes.
The winged one looked down upon him with something like despair in his emerald gaze. Without knowing why he did so, Turel spoke. "What is it that you want? Revenge?"
"Death," the creature said simply, emotionlessly. Then the bitter, insane smile returned. "Yet I must be satisfied with your torture. Amusing, is it not? You could have fled... my children are far from perfect soldiers, and had you fled when I first appeared to you, you would have escaped. The great Lord Turel... mightiest warrior of Kain's army," the smile became a sneer. "Captured by his inability to back down from a fight."
Turel was losing the battle with unconsciousness, and he fell to the floor at the creature's feet. The whispering voice followed him into oblivion. "Enjoy your nap... upon waking you shall find yourself in a position even more uncomfortable than this."
One thought followed him into an all-encompassing darkness. All the sons of Kain... destroyed by their own folly.
Adojan stared down at the fallen Vampire Lord. His face was impassive, emotionless. The still burning green eyes held something that looked like regret, or sadness, or perhaps a despairing resignation to fate. Whatever it was, it was gone when the Hylden turned to face his creations.
"Take him to the Pillars and the place that has been prepared for him."
Four Hylden moved forward to lift the unconscious vampire while another spoke. "Will you not return with us, Sire?"
Adojan drew himself up slightly, disgust coiling within him at the sound of the last word. "No," he said shortly. "Now do as I bid." He turned, ignoring the winged demons who bowed as he passed, and moved towards a door that would take him further into the hold.
South of Dark Eden, the Chronoplast chamber was silent, the portal at the top of the stairs empty. Then, as if invisible hands had taken hold of them, the dials on all sides turned with the grinding of metal, to new positions. The shimmering gate spilled out into the room and collected again in the portal, waiting to admit the passengers of time.
The first figure appeared, landing lightly on the stone stairway, and put a hand to one aching temple. The other passenger landed a few seconds later and spared only a brief glance at the first.
"It is no more discomforting than a teleportation spell," the second one said, moving down the stairs.
The first passenger smiled slightly. "Your concern for me is touching, Kain."
The white-haired vampire turned to his companion. "We have precious little time, Vorador, and none of it can be wasted in quelling a headache."
As short as their acquaintance had been, Vorador found this display of impatience uncommon in his newfound ally. Kain noticed his look of curiosity and the ancient face smoothed into an expressionless mask. "Shall we go?" Kain asked courteously. Vorador raised an eyebrow, but did not comment, placing a hand on the other vampire's shoulder. Both were caught up in the spell of teleportation and disappeared. Mere minutes later, the dials turned again, the portal closed, and the Chronoplast chamber was silent once more.
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*Dances around* And that's my Addy!
Adojan- *annoyed* Can I go now?
Syvia- Why bother? You'll be in chapter 9 before long.
Adojan- So you say, but look how long it took you to finish this chapter.
Syvia- I have a prospective four pages of chapter 8 already finished. *smiles* You'll be back before you know it.
Adojan- *deadpan* Oh joy.